


Werecat Winchester

by Sa_kun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animal Transformation, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:04:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sa_kun/pseuds/Sa_kun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> The cat was fluffy, about two shades too many of orange and brown and a splash of black here and there, pointy little ears that were tufted at the tops and a tail that looked like the very tip of it had been dipped in white paint.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Werecat Winchester

**Author's Note:**

> Because the Leap-Year-Day deserves a fic of somekind. This is a fic of somekind: 
> 
> * * *

They didn't talk about it (not that there was anything to talk about, really).

The cat was fluffy, about two shades too many of orange and brown and a splash of black here and there, pointy little ears that were tufted at the tops and a tail that looked like the very tip of it had been dipped in white paint.

They didn't talk about it, though; never did; not any more.

Maybe it was a curse, maybe it was some kind of genetic thing he'd been born with. Point was; they didn't talk about it. It happened once a month, had for as long as either of them could remember. It didn't coincide with the full moon, never had, and Dean only ever prowled various motel rooms or the Impala when the sky was completely void of a moon entirely.

He didn't purr; that much was absolute truth. He didn't purr, he didn't rub up against anyone's legs, he didn't pounce on (un)suspecting passers-by (Sam, mostly) or chase spots of lights or strings with bits of paper tied to them. Point was: he wasn't a cat and they didn't talk about it.

They didn't talk about it, ever. Like. Ever, for real. Honestly.

Still.

"You're such a goddamned prima donna when you're like this, I swear," Sam groaned, but he didn't actually sound annoyed.

Dean slanted a look at Sam, all haughty superiority and bored disdain. He licked the back of his pawn, then dragged it over his head.

Sam rolled his eyes, then sighed. "Fine. Tuna?"

Dean flicked his tail, then continued to clean his fur.

The bed creaked as Sam stood up. Dean's ears twitched, but he didn't really move or turn his head to look at his brother. Then there were large hands, scratching behind his ears and under his chin. Dean turned to putty in about zero point two seconds, then started purring loudly. He thought about protesting when he felt himself being lifted, but then decided it didn't really matter, because Sam's arms were warm and strong and his hands worked fucking miracles, honestly.

"I'm sorry I forgot, Dean," Sam rumbled. Dean pressed his head closer to Sam's chest, just basking in the deep vibrations of his brother's voice. "But it's not like you remembered, either, so, you know, don't put it all on me, man."

"Mrrow," Dean said and licked the finger closest to his mouth.

"You're the one who's all obsessed with fish once a month, not me," Sam continued. He jolted Dean a little as he sat them down on the bed. "You want me to go out and buy you a can of tuna, I will."

Dean meowed, licked Sam's finger again, then pressed his skull against Sam's hand.

"Yeah?"

Dean started kneading Sam's thigh with his paws. "Hey, yeah, that's enough, Dean," Sam declared and lifted Dean the cat off his lap and put him on the bed next to him.

Dean fluffed his fur and glared at Sam.

"Don't give me that look," Sam said as he brushed stray bits of fur from his jeans. "God, Dean, you shed like a fucking horse," he grumbled. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

Dean prowled along the bed, grumbling.

"No, seriously, if you go outside? I'll dunk you in the shower."

Dean yowled and flattened his ears along his skull.

"Don't give me that crap, man. Who was it who dragged in a ton of mud and fucking fleas, huh?"

Dean hissed.

"Stay here," Sam said, and then he was gone.

Dean prowled the bed, edge to edge. He kneaded the cushions with his paws, rubbed the covers with his head and twitched every time someone walked by outside.

When Sam came back, Dean was by the door in a flash, rubbing against his legs and eyeing the bag in his brother's hand with wide, wide eyes and a weaving tail.

"God, you could tempt a fucking saint when you're like this," Sam muttered. He was smiling, though, Dean knew that much even without looking at him, especially when he was a cat. Because to cats? Emotions were scents and Dean had a very sensitive nose that could pick out the scent of fresh tuna from miles away, never mind when it was wrapped in paper and plastic in Sam's paper bag that he was caring in his arms, far and high away from Dean's reach.

"Mrrow," Dean said, and butted against Sam's legs until his brother sat on the bed, pulled out the fish, and unwrapped it for Dean. He barely got his fingers out of the way fast enough before Dean was there, gobbling up the fish as if it were the best thing he'd ever eaten in his life, ever.

So, no, Dean didn't purr, never mind _beg_ for fresh fish or for his brother to pet him.

Because Dean? He wasn't that kind of cat.


End file.
